


Take my hand, we'll dive into the sea

by Mis_Shapes



Series: Theon Greyjoy Kink Bingo [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Universe, F/M, Not Beta Read, Ocean, Ocean Sex, Pregnancy Kink, Religion, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27524932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mis_Shapes/pseuds/Mis_Shapes
Summary: “It seems you have taken a mermaid to wife, brother. Does she attend to your every want?”Theon smirks, he does rather like being likened to a god and king.Theon's new bride wishes to be blessed.TGKB 'Worship' square fill
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Wynafryd Manderly
Series: Theon Greyjoy Kink Bingo [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1995442
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13
Collections: Theon Greyjoy Kink Bingo





	Take my hand, we'll dive into the sea

**Author's Note:**

> Let's just pretend the Ironborn didn't try another rebellion, Robb survived and granted him his freedom. Or something like that.

“You don’t have to do this,” Theon tells her, turning from watching the waves roll in.

His new wife glances over, having once had her eyes planted firmly on the ocean ahead of them. Her expression tells him she’s thought this over countless times. “I want to,” she responds, but he suspects in reality she feels she has little choice. Setting her jaw, she refocuses. “For my husband.”

“Wyn-”

“Let them know I am no soft greenlander, I am of the sea as much as they are,” she says over the cries of gulls overhead.

Theon bites his tongue. He knows her, knows how stubborn she can be when she wants to be, even after the short amount of time he’s known her.

There have been wives who have left their houses’ gods behind them before, but he does not recall them looking as she does now. It is not the Ironborns’ custom to adorn themselves in this way; her braid threaded with shells from the beaches of the Iron Islands, a detail that escapes neither of them.

Her steps are sure and even when she leaves his side, walking across bands of pebbles and sand on the shore line, to join the priest in the waves. Beside him in his ragged robes in the mottled colours of the sea, she stands out further as something else. Dignified even as brown hair escaped from her braid whips across her face and sea water wicks up the thin fabric of her shift.

When she kneels she does so without flinching at the cold.

The approach of another’s feet crunches in the sand. He knows who this latecomer is without looking. “It seems you have taken a mermaid to wife, brother. Does she attend to your every want?”

Theon smirks, he does rather like being likened to a god and king.

“Jealous?” he asks Asha, but she only gives him an amused hum in return.

Wynafryd tilts her head towards the sky and into the stream of water being poured from the skin. She’d have gladly been submerged. It runs over her head and face, trickling in rivulets over her jaw and her throat, then he watches in run down her cleavage.

"Let Wynafryd, your servant, be born again from the sea, as you were,” cries the priest. “Bless her with salt, bless her with stone, bless her with steel." 

"What is dead may never die," she staunchly replies, shoulders pulled back. He can see her nipples hard from the cold through the cloth from where he stands on the beach.

"What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger.” The old man holds out his hand to her, but she ignores it, and instead meets Theon’s eyes with a silent request.

His strides down to meet her are not nearly as patient as her’s were. He takes no care to remove even his boots before he wades through the water and offers his hand. Soaking wet, she takes it and pulls herself up to stand against him. Goosebumps cover her arms, but she does not tremble. The simple white dress is sodden and clings to her frame. 

“You’re cold, my lady,” he says, sneaking a hand between the pair of them for a crafty pinch of her nipple.

“And wet,” she whispers in his ear, “but I do now have my husband to warm me.”

He instructs the priest with a wave of his hand and a grin for her alone, “leave us. Take the others with you.” For this he is glad his father has not deigned to grant them his presence. When he married her three moons ago in Winterfell she’d glared daggers at him, but now she smiles right back at him, looking up expectantly through dark lashes.

The priest has barely moved when he cups her jaw to guide her into a kiss, tasting salt water on her lips as they part to welcome him. She chuckles lightly at the squeeze of his hand at her breast and pulls away from him just enough to speak.

“They will see.”

“Let them.”

“Theon,” she says, smiling, and looks over his shoulder. “Be patient, though I know that is difficult for you. It is a small mercy that the bedding ceremony wasn’t one of the first times I encountered my new family. I would very much like to keep it that way.”

Theon smirks at her reaction to his thumb circling her nipple, just knowing that she has the same thoughts, that there is no objection to his new desire, a growing fantasy, has him stiffening. “We are honouring your new god in his watery halls, my lady, there is no shame in that.”

Wynafryd laughs, placing a hand on his chest. “You do not believe that.”

“How dare you.” He gives a buttock a playful pinch as he begins to back her out into deeper waters, catching her when she slips on the unseen seaweed on the ocean floor. There is no need to, but he lowers his voice and breathes into her ear. “Perhaps if I fill you with my seed we will be blessed with a prince by the Drowned God himself.”

“I will pray for it, my lord,” she assures him, voice sultry.

Once the water is high enough to hide them, he pulls the skirt up and over her curves, using it sat above her hip on her waist to pull her and place hot kisses at her neck. Her deft fingers work to unlace his britches and caress him under the cool water, the waves swaying them each gently as they roll in. When he lifts her with hands grasping her thighs, she throws her arms over his shoulders and wraps legs eagerly around his waist.

She groans when he pulls her down onto him, a sound he’ll never tire of. Supported by the water and his hands, in truth it is her that uses his body for her pleasure, with moans and hot breaths in his ear. When he holds her tight, fingers sinking into her flesh, and rocks her with more force against him, she cries out above the wind and sea spray.

_He Who Dwells Beneath the Waves wakes._

“God,” she gasps, catching herself from the plural and grinding back against him, “oh, Drowned God, you fill me so well. Bless me with salt, lord husband, bless me…” Her hand clutches his hair, pulling him into a needy kiss, hot body pressed against him. “Bless me with your seed,” she says, breaking away to look him in the eye, “bless me with a babe of the sea.”

He bites his lip, wondering if she is aware just how much of an effect this has on him. How he’d worship her as the mother of his children, for it cannot be blasphemous when the Drowned God grants his prayers.

Through desperation, he kisses her jaw and down to her throat until she whimpers and finally trembles and clenches around him, finding her release. 

“Fill me,” she begs him in a whisper and has him spill a fall into ecstasy at the thought, at her command, and cries out in supplication.

Before he has fully softened, he pulls out and scoops her up with an arm under the back of her knees and has her yelp and cling to him, followed shortly by a burst of laughter at the realisation of what he’s doing.

Theon grins despite his unsure footing and the weight in his arms. “The waves will not bear a child for you.”

“You cannot carry me the whole way back.”

“A cart for my lady!” Theon shouts jovially, holding her close.

Wynafryd buries her flushed face into his chest, hiding from the non existent souls on the shore with a show of embarrassment. “ _Do not.”_


End file.
